


Musician 52366

by ToasterBonanza



Series: Piper at The Gates of Dawn [3]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek - Various Authors
Genre: Alien Cultural Differences, Bajoran Culture, Cardassian-Bajoran Hybrids, Crossdressing, Deep Space Nine - Freeform, Ferengi culture, Gen, Hiding in Plain Sight, Hybrids, Implied/Referenced Bigotry, Inspired by Music, Musical References, Occupation of Bajor, Rejection by One's Culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:55:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28354293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToasterBonanza/pseuds/ToasterBonanza
Summary: Story 3 of "Piper At The Gates of Dawn"Despite a series of wrong turns, our two musicians finally arrive at Bajor where they are welcomed into the home of a fellow academic. Everything points to Musician 52366 being here, somewhere. But what if the musician isn't real? Or worse, what if they're real, and the last person they would ever expect?
Series: Piper at The Gates of Dawn [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2072472
Comments: 3
Kudos: 1





	1. Seu Minjaral, The Bajorassian

A most glorious dawn peaked through the windows of his home in the hills away from town. The pink clouds looked like trees and feathers today. Yellow sky. Dark gold grass in the light. The Occupation and Dominion War had killed the forests here of his childhood. But the meadow had its own beauty. If he focused, he could remember the dense trees. Breathe deep the dewy air. Chores could wait. He settled on the warm flat boulders in front of his home. The music in his head was far more demanding.

It was bright morning at the edge the green meadow arrived the figures of two travelers, leaving town, walking along the stone-paved road, mindful to not crush the purple-and-orange Resurrection flowers which sprung up between the stones. This wasn’t a good day for visitors, whether students or townspeople or, May The Prophets Forbid It, someone wanting to drag him back into public scrutiny. His past work as a political agitator always threatened to overshadow his current work as a preservationist.

Oh thank the Prophets, off-worlders; a nuisance but far more tolerable than the people from town. They didn’t visit often, but when they did, they were interesting. He continued composing. 

They were now at the foot of his hill. A Vulcan and a Klingon. That’s what they were, right? He knew both species only through colleagues or in-passing at conferences. Weren’t they like opposites? What made these two come together? He stopped and called down to them:

“This is an old house without a central computer. I hope you know Bajoran.” 

No response; they just kept walking. The music in his head would not wait. 

They stopped a respectful distance away from his boulder: a Klingon for certain, dark hair loosely pulled back with a trimmed beard and mustache, sleeves were just to the elbows, displaying a fractal scar spreading like tree branches on his right; and a Vulcan, hair wavy instead of straight like grass, odd blue eyes, and similar sleeve style. They looked like they had slept in their clothes for days. The Vulcan retrieved a little black box from his satchel and pressed a button.

“This is a translator. If you can understand, please say ‘yes.’”

Ah, very clever. He set down his flute and stood to greet them. “Yes. You are...Vudic?” 

“Master Artist Vudic Jalal, yes. My colleague, Doh’Val, House Nakarmi. We corresponded regarding Musician 52366.”

Now he remembered those names. The Vulcan had contacted him but never followed up...had it already been a year? He assumed that some other project had come up. His good eye scanned them. Both were using strips of cloth as belts for their trousers. They had the look of two people whose travels had been hard and left them hungry. What had happened? “Please, come inside. 

“Thank you.” 

What were they expecting—of course. Their whole reason for seeking him out slowly emerged from his memory. “I hope you came for my opinion and not to extract some confession that I am Musician 52366.” He collected his materials, smirking at them. “You and ten others.” 

Not a flinch. “The trip from the space station alone provided sufficient time to discuss and eliminate that possibility, however appealing. We traveled from our respective homeworlds.” They were young, but they appeared to bear an existential fatigue. Their souls were weary. 

“Have you eaten?” He opened the door wide so they’d know to follow him; he hadn’t the slightest idea what either species ate.

“Yes. Water, if you please.”

To his confusion, both began taking off their shoes as soon as they stepped in only to hesitate and look to him for some etiquette. “Keep your shoes,” he directed, finding himself feeling awkward too.

He brought them to a padded bench in the front room where they both sat with all the courtesy of two diplomats meeting a powerful member of the government. The Klingon, Doh’Val, finally spoke up. “I am deeply grateful for your time, Master Seu. Please know that I am here representing only myself and no one else.” 

Their host nearly dropped his metal cups over the basin nearby at the sound of that voice. “Oh, ah, no need to be formal. Call me Minjaral.” It was beautiful, deep and rich, the kind of voice that could make your ribs rattle, a stark contrast to the other’s silvery voice. He was now eager to hear them sing, assuming they could. “I still do not understand why you could not send me the recordings first.” He looked over his shoulder at them wit his good eye. “I will not turn you away. But I do not understand your logic.” 

Even the way he rubbed his temple was heavy with fatigue. “We had expected a much shorter journey when we began.”

These poor souls. He handed off the water to his guests. “Where would you like to begin?” He turned to the massive gray tower, high as his head, and keyed in his startup code. The lights all up and down the tower blinked as it went through the system check, chirping and singing. It had been hacked together from scrapped parts, but it worked well enough. 

“Our most recent finding first and foremost, followed by the recordings you described. We came by this recording in our journey to Bajor. You can access it here.” He tapped a button on the small translator box, waiting for the computer to recognize and access the file. “We were curious as to why Musician 52366 has never been studied or investigated. The people we met who knew of this person’s work always expressed fascination but never a desire for study.” 

A chortle left Minjaral’s mouth. Oh no, they were serious. Should he tell them?

They said nothing but leaned toward him with very, very serious concern. They’d be furious. 

He couldn’t stop grinning despite his best efforts. Did Vulcans ever get angry? Maybe this would do it. He glanced at the front door, making sure it was still open in case he needed to escape. “I tell you this as a friend. In this sector, Musician 52366 is a joke. Hmm, a prank?” He almost wished one of his friends could be here to see this. It was terrible and it was hilarious. “Musician 52366 cannot be real.” 

No anger yet.“Come again?” asked Doh’Val, rightfully incredulous. 

They must be fairly young to to run after ghosts like this. Probably some ambition to make their mark on the galaxy and find everlasting glory. “Recordings that appear seemingly out of nowhere, no way to verify species let alone anything about the individual—musically, each recording is the perfect puzzle for any academic. In fact, there is so much variation that it is impossible for them to originate from a single person. Many were verified to come from older sources—recordings that were once popular and then suddenly forgotten.” 

Vudic touched his colleague’s arm, a gesture to stop the Klingon from flying into a rage which seemed increasingly likely. The Vulcan remained calm and courteous. “Regardless of what your colleagues believe, your opinion on this recording is important.” 

“Please, understand. Since the recordings emerged, it has been become a custom at conferences in our sector to accuse friends and colleagues of being Musician 52366. One of the conferences held on Bajor even made a tradition every year of electing one of the attendees to the office of Musician 52366.” The computer tower had already found the file. A blue light indicated the file was ready to play.

“That is a fascinating conversation for another time. First, please hear what we have brought you.” 

“When the recordings first emerged, I was equally fascinated. I was even convinced that a friend of mine had been behind—”

“Yes, I have no doubt that you have quite a number of fascinating and unique perspectives.” His voice cut like a laser. “But we did not spend one year traveling to your home, bearing great personal danger and financial risk, for drinking water and condescension. Both are widely available and bountiful on our homeworlds.” Disdain flashed for a moment across his eyes. “Play the recording we have brought you.” 

Impatient Chirping from the computer. This was a stand-off. These men. They show up on his doorstep, they come into his house, and they expect him to help them chase phantoms. For now, he will humor them. He looked to his open front door as he tapped a button to play. 

Minjaral took a seat across from them and gave the recording its due. Bajoran scale. Instrument with keys, Bajoran tuning. Bajoran folk song, one of the most ubiquitous ones. Singing but not in Bajoran. Something else, familiar but on the tip of his tongue. But there was time still to disappoint his guests. This could very well be a dialect from one of the colonies or just a far older form of Bajoran.

The music suddenly stopped, interrupted by a voice. Someone speaking harshly far from the microphone. A second speaker; the voice of whoever had been singing. Same language as the song. Concrete evidence of a real person behind one of these recordings. Now he was interested. 

The recording stopped. At last, something real. They had done what no one else had. It was like the first time he saw the Emissary; something he’d never quite believed in was staring him in the face. “Tell me your plans.” 

“Simple. We find Musician 52366 and invite them to perform for colleagues on our respective homeworlds.” 

Doh’Val added with pride, “Klingons, despite our military’s brashness, are a very sophisticated people. Musician 52366 could contribute a great deal to our musical traditions.” 

He detected that a very bombastic speech was about to come, probably about the glory of the Klingon Empire and whatever other cultish devotion to the state that Klingons passed off as patriotism. He always wondered why Cardassia never found an ally in them; perhaps for the same reason that two people who were too similar couldn’t live together. “Are you so certain that this is what they want?” 

“We considered the possibility,” assured Vudic. “But we believe that we can persuade them through logic and respect. Our arguments are quite sound.” 

They were a very long way from home, and there was a lot about this sector they didn’t understand. “They may resist. They may have their reasons for being so secretive.” He went to the basin to refill his cup. “Do you even know the species?” 

More meaningful expressions exchanged. “Do you?” 

“At the end, the singer did not speak Kardasi or Bajoran. Something else entirely. Without further analysis, I cannot give my opinion.” He grabbed his guests’ cups to refresh them. “Thus, Musician 52366 may be hiding in the Alpha Quadrant. There is fear, corruption, and crime so close to the Cardassian Neutral Zones. We are a long way from the Federation’s protection.” 

Doh’Val waved away the possibility. “I have contacts on my planet. I can persuade them to offer protection to such an accomplished person. There is no reason to hide any longer.” 

Their lack of understanding was becoming insufferable. And there was now something deeper he sensed that was burrowing under his skin. His eyes narrowed as he set down their cups. “Why are you so interested in this person?” He mimicked the authoritative tone he learned from Cardassian officers as a child. “You want something from them.” 

The energy in the room changed. He saw vulnerability in their faces. Oh no, this was too much. They were about to show him their souls. He wasn’t ready to do the same in return. Not now, please. Any day but today. 

“Minjaral,” said Vudic quietly. “We come from—” he paused, careful with his words. “Great societies. This is not a judgment of other worlds. Qo’nos and Vulcan are highly advanced. However—” 

The other cut in. “Stop, please. Let me tell him the truth.” 

“Doh’Val, I am telling him the truth.”

“What you are telling him are your reasons. This man deserves to hear mine as well.” 

Well, now they had better start explaining themselves quickly. Doh’Val continued, “If we cannot find the Musician, I need you to come back to my homeworld. A brief introduction. The patronage of my entire family hangs on what I bring back. Coming back empty-handed means I lose everything. I live the rest of my days in exile. This trip must be successful.” His deep voice cracked into a high note at the end. 

He remembered this all too well in stories about what Bajor had been like before the Occupation. He also remembered how much he had relied on the kindness of others to have anything to his name for a very long time. Minjaral took a deep breath.“I...understand.” He couldn’t make eye contact. “Before I acquired this house, I relied on patronage for basic shelter and food.” So many years, and his heart was still so soft when it came to young musicians asking for help. “Whatever you need, I will help you.” 

“I understand that what we say may appear alarmist, even illogical. Understand that we are both hybrid like you. And what what we see is thus: our cultures are stagnating. Vulcan and the Empire cannot revert to their more primitive natures, and stagnation is the first sign of regression,” added Vudic. “The thought is untenable. These are our first steps. But we cannot attain our mutual goals without helping each other.” 

He often worried for the soul of Bajor; was it a soul that would accept him as one of its children? And these lost people, also unsure of where they belonged in their own cultures. They came from different places, but all three shared the burden of being ill-fitting pieces in the great machinery of their homes.

His gaze turned to the open door. A beautiful day. He hadn’t planned on starting his day in this manner. Minjaral had so much work to do. He will do none of it today and instead care for these travelers. “Wherever you are staying in the town, leave it and stay with me. You need to rest.”

A deep crease formed across Vudic’s brow. “Your offer is unnecessary. We are well accommodated.” 

“It is necessary. We have a great deal to discuss, and it is right that I care for you. And more importantly.” He stood up, gesturing for them to follow him to the guest rooms. “Neither of you asked me about my left eye or the scar on my face. So, both of you are tolerable enough.”


	2. Letters to Ammi from Bajor

Mother,  
We have found Seu Minjaral. He is a kind and generous man who asked us to recuperate from our journey at his home. I am writing to you from the ground transport to the shuttle which will bring us back to Bajor’s space station. Mr. Seu suggested that after the perils we suffered to reach him, he would secure more comfortable lodging on a ground transport designed to highlight the local flora for visitors rather than taking us to the station immediately. I expect the journey to take us a few days, but I will write to you at least once during that time.

The addition of a third traveler has provided me with opportunity to alter our routine, and for this I am grateful; peaceable change is natural and healthy. We share quarters for the time being, but the change includes each of us having our own cot. I have told you at length about Doh’Val; he is restless when he sleeps. Self-hypnosis is no longer necessary for rest. 

Mr. Seu possesses remarkable talent, unparalleled to anyone I have ever met. Doh’Val is accomplished in his own right, but I find him comparable to my own ability. Mr. Seu seems to create music as easily as I breathe. I am fascinated by his mind. That he is reluctant to share these details with me only intensifies my curiosity. When I told him of my research, Mr. Seu asked me at length about my work with musics of telepaths and asked to learn details of how to write music for telepaths. He believes that similar techniques could be applied in music for non-telepaths as a means of intensifying a spiritual experience, thereby reaching a higher state of consciousness. This is the first time I have considered to apply my research in this manner.

Because of his talent, I am concerned for his safety. Up until this moment, we have encountered possible dangers because we were simply foreign. Never had either of us experienced danger for our specific heritages. Mr. Seu tells us the polite term for him is “war orphan”--he is half-Bajoran and half-Cardassian, his father’s features dominating his appearance with only his nasal structure hinting at his Bajoran bloodline. His research has been invaluable to rebuilding Bajor’s culture after the Occupation by the Cardassian Union, but the people on the transport treat him like his life is less important than their own, or even mine or Doh’Val’s. I have seen at least one spit on him as he passed. The steward did not fulfill his request until Doh’Val repeated it. I must stress that these incidents are not a constant occurrence; in fact, the majority of people we encounter regard him as they do their fellow citizens, but their politeness is tempered by trepidation. Mr. Seu’s face was harmed when he was young, leaving his left eye severely damaged and a large scar; he explains that people are responding to his disfigurement instead of his heritage. When questioned about why he has never received surgical correction, he did not answer. I am realizing that I am a foreigner experiencing the after-effects of this Occupation, and therefore I do not fully grasp the mark that the Cardassians left on Bajor’s culture. Mr. Seu is a manifestation of this mark. 

I have observed that in many cultures beyond Vulcan, there is a violence even in non-violent actions. Violence is illogical in almost all circumstances. My friendship with Doh’Val and association with Mr. Seu is, on the other hand, soundly logical. We come from different cultures, and our unity has strengthened each of us. I find satisfaction in our relationship with one another. Peace is always logical. However, my brief time on Bajor has shown me things I could never learn at home. While resolution must precipitate from conflict, I have come to learn that any species who has endured violence at the hands of another species can only create more conflict before reaching a resolution. Greater conflict arises, and resolution becomes more logical but less attainable. Mr. Seu frequently explains that he is unperturbed by the behavior of the people toward him. Each time he expresses this assurance, I find less truth than the time before.

+++++++

Illogic has ruled my behavior today. The human parentage you gave me has made the teachings of Surak challenging. Your bloodline causes me suffering, Mother. I grieve for what I cannot change. I cannot change that I have remained away from home for longer than ever before in my lifetime. I cannot change that I have suffered greatly during my time apart from my family. Neither Doh’Val nor Mr. Seu are appropriate to express these sentiments. They do not understand the teachings of Surak. I believe that their lives would improve through deep understanding of Surak’s philosophy, but they must ask me; I have learned from your family that emotional beings are reluctant to accept a philosophy they do not choose to learn about. But studying Surak only deepens my grief, my grief for what I cannot attain and for where I am not. Instead of working, I am using my time in our quarters for intense meditation and all the techniques you helped me learn to soothe my grief. 

Doh’Val spoke to me at length today about his longing to see his family. He expresses these sentiments to me intermittently as we are traveling, and every other instance has left me undisturbed. Today, I listened as the pain in my heart festered. My human heritage and Vulcan heritage frustrate each other; my human heritage wishes to share my pain, and my Vulcan heritage will not allow me to share such pain. He has been a valuable friend, but in that moment I felt—yes, Mother, I felt—alone. 

I have vowed to myself to return to Vulcan once we discover the identity of Musician 52366.

+++++++

This is our last day aboard the ground transport; soon, we will board a shuttle to the space station. My letters have described my method for identifying the work of Musician 52366. I have studied the vocal diagnostics. I have also prepared my arguments in response to all reasonable explanations behind Musician 52366’s refusal to give up their anonymity. I have advised Doh’Val on expecting the possibility that we will return home without Musician 52366, a possibility Mr. Seu first described. However, Mr. Seu has expressed interest in visiting Qo’Nos. Doh’Val has stated that presenting a Bajoran composer to his family’s patron will accord him more time to persuade Musician 52366 a second time, but I can hear uncertainty when he says this.

I will contact you directly when we have secured our quarters aboard the space station. 

Your Son. 

+++++++

Vudic My Noor,   
Al Hamdulillah, you are on the space station once more. The weeks and months when you were unable to contact me, I cried for you, my sweet and only child. Your father does not say it, but I know him; neither he nor I could bear to lose you. Please forgive my weakness; you are your own man, and I am proud of your accomplishments, but most of all I am simply relieved that you are safe. Happiness is what I want for you because you are Human. Peace is what I want for you because you are Vulcan. I miss you so much. Vulcan mothers do not coddle their children as Human mothers do. I do not care. My heart even now, sees is the helpless baby I held in my arms after your birth. Seeing your face again will bring me great joy. Your father plays your ka’athyra in the evening and makes questions about your letters a part of his daily routine. We will both speak with you when you contact us. Your father and I are both incomplete without you.

All of my love,   
Your mother


	3. A Hint? A Clue!

An easy day. No customers, no boss, and no hassles. No spinning dabo wheels making so much noise as people lost all their money. Even the wait staff and the bartenders were taking this as a time to relax instead of fretting about profits. No manager to growl at them, no owner to shriek over lost revenue.

The tall, beautiful dabo girls took the chance to have some refreshment at the bar with their favorite Ferengi waiter, Krax—the cutest little troll on the whole station.

“Maybe _I_ should open my own place,” said Krax. He said it whenever business was slow like this. “Lots of music. Have it on the other end of the promenade. Would you all come with me if I did that? It would be a lot of fun.”

“You know the answer!” said one of the girls with a laugh. The answer wasn’t yes, but it wasn’t no either.

He picked up the voices before the other waiters: males. Three. Pretty voices. But three males meant trouble, even at this time of day. Krax would knock the teeth out of a patron before they laid a hand on one of the girls, no matter how much latinum he was carrying.

The other waiters’ ears picked up and they sprung into action, clearing up dishes and squabbling over who would take these customers. Meanwhile, none of them noticed that Krax had already slipped off to greet them.

His smiled strained at the sight of them: A Vulcan, a Klingon, and a Cardass—no, Bajoran-Cardassian cross with a very nasty facial scar. They’d have no latinum to their names, but they would be very polite to the girls and not cause any trouble. He gallantly gestured to the nearest table for them.

The Klingon regarded him with disdain as they took their seats. “Why must we come here?” Such a shame that a smooth voice that he felt more than heard came from someone who sneered at Krax on sight.

He appreciated the hybrid, not just for his velvet voice, but for saying, “No one should leave the space station without visiting here. It is part of the sector’s history.” Wayward Cardassians and hybrids like this man were always some of the best customers: they didn’t order much, never bothered the girls, and always left something for the waiter.

After bringing a carafe of water and glasses, Krax left them to whatever they were discussing, slinking over to the dabo tables where the girls were. He didn’t care what anyone said: dabo girls were sharper than any of the scientists and engineers and doctors who came through and gambled away their savings. They could read any man in seconds. “What do you think?” he asked them.

“I like the Vulcan. Dark and handsome, ooh, and that nose!” “Oh yes, I remember him, he was here a few days ago when that transport stopped by.” “Wasn’t he on it?” “The Klingon seems, I don’t know, different somehow, he sits so close to the Vulcan.” “The war orphan, I hate his face, but I don’t know, he seems sweet.” “Yes, I like his smile, even if it’s only on his good side.” “His scar, though, that worries me. It’s from a pastry iron.” “And undernourished, so sinewy.” “And so many other scars too. Be careful with him.” “At least he dresses well.” “But I don’t think they are rich. Can you at least get the Vulcan’s name? I want to flirt with him later.”

Krax kept one ear to the girls and one ear keenly tilted toward the three customers, grinning to himself as the other waiters were turned away. He caught words and phrases as they talked, but something about their conversation piqued his interest: one was talking about some music he’d written recently.

He’d like them to stay so he could listen more. There must be a way to get them to stay.

Straightening up his clothes, he put on his best smile and sauntered back to the table. “Gentlemen! We always appreciate visitors whether from the planet or from the other side of the galaxy! And for today only, your next drink order is free.” In reality, Krax would put their orders on his own account.

All conversation suddenly ceased and the three turned to him with bewildering expressions. The Vulcan seemed to be trying to read his soul, the Klingon looked like he’d seen someone come back from the dead, and the hybrid covered his mouth the way one did to keep from laughing during a funeral.

...Maybe he would come back later. “Please do not rush yourselves and let us know what else we can do!” Go. Go. GO.

“Sir, a moment, if you please.” The Vulcan addressed him, a small crease in his brow. He should have been faster.

Better put on his least offensive smile. “Yes sir.”

He had the look of someone thinking very carefully about each of his words. “How long have you been on this station?”  
  
Already, Krax felt off about answering accurately. “Since after the last war.” He kept his bland smile.

“And you are familiar with the many species who visit?”

“A little,” he lied, “Perhaps the station’s concierge can help you with your questions. I am merely a waiter. I will return for your orders.” He didn’t wait for another word to make his exit.

Only when he was comfortably out of sight-line from the table did he feel safe, around a corner so he could still hear them and catch their reflections. He saw the three men leaning toward each other like conspirators. “That is one of the voices on the recordings—” “—One! He may lead us to the real musician.” “Why are you so certain it is not him?” “Why are you so certain it is him?” “This space station became a vital hub during the War. By our own evidence, it is logical—” “—Logical? A _Ferengi?_ ” “I warned you both of this possibility.” “What are we to do?” “Simple: we bribe him to meet us later.” “A bribe is beneath my honor!” “Then neither of you will get what you want.”

His pulse jumped wildly as he listened. Why were they looking for him? What recordings?

...Did they mean the songs he had sold?

The bartender snapped at him to go back to their only customers before he let another waiter close the transaction. He discretely wiped the sweat of his palms on his trousers as he walked back. “Gentlemen! Any decisions?”

The three at the table traded meaningful glances, and then the Vulcan laid three strips of latinum on the table. He felt the breath leave him momentarily. More than anyone had offered just for a meeting. “We have a proposition that may interest you. Perhaps you could discuss it following the end of your workday.”

The allure of the shiny strips compelled him to reach for them.

The Vulcan covered the strips. “There will be more if you fulfill our request.”

Stupid overly smart Vulcan. “Fine. The workday ends in six hours.” Another lie. He wanted two extra hours to prepare. “Meet me at the other end of the Promenade.”

Well. _This_ was going to be an interesting transaction…..


	4. Transaction Sub Rosa

The other end of the Promenade didn’t actually exist on a space station that was a giant circle. He always said “the other end” as a test. Two hours was time to painstakingly pick out his most respectable business clothes, rehearse different cover stories, and plan out different escapes. He was a lot more than just a waiter, and they better understand that quickly. 

He walked down the Promenade to his preferred negotiation locale, the Terran eatery that served whatever it was the people ate there. Three minutes and if they didn’t show, he would disavow ever speaking to them or any knowledge he might have. 

The hybrid was waiting for him at the entrance. 

They’d be harder to slip away from than he first thought.

Krax preferred meeting here because, no matter what, at least half of the clientele in the eatery were from Starfleet. If these three caused trouble, they’d be stopped right away by a few well-meaning officers and Krax could make his escape. 

Walking in, Krax didn’t see any of the regulars but still plenty of blue, yellow, and red. He was led to a table far in the back where the lighting was bad. Idiots. Conspicuously in shadow and far away from his favorite table. Now he had to worry about escaping these doofbeetles and Station Security at the same time. 

He took a seat where he could see as much of the room as possible. The shadows heightened the Klingon’s scowl and gave more definition to the hybrid’s scars on his face, neck, and arms. Were they more than just musicians?

Even the Vulcan’s voice sounded more sinister here. “We are pleased to see you.”

“You should be,” he announcing, grinning so they knew he wasn’t afraid of them. He had to tilt his head to keep one ear pointed toward them and the other at the rest of the room. So far, just a couple comments about how odd the four of them seemed together. Good. 

The hybrid’s velvet voice made Krax’s heart cold; war-hardened Cardassian captains had more warmth. “We believe you have something we want.” 

The recordings. “And?” he challenged back. “What are you going to do about it?”

The hybrid tilted his head thoughtfully to keep his functional eye on Krax. “We would like to pay you for it.” 

He folded his arms proudly. “It is not for sale.” 

The three suddenly pulled away, murmuring among themselves in hushed, hurried tones.

“I can still hear you!” He pointed to his lobes.

The Klingon slammed his fist on the table. “Give us the recordings and tell us their source!” 

“You think you scare me?” He hopped to his feet to look taller. “Hah! You’re nothing like the Klingons who come through here! Spoiled princeling, no doubt! Bored with Homeworld and looking to bully someone on the far side of the galaxy for fun?” 

The other two restrained the Klingon who snarled and gnashed his teeth like an animal, sputtering incomprehensibly with rage, even spitting on Krax’s clothes. Krax wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of fear and pulled a kerchief from his vest pocket to dry himself. 

“That’s right!” continued Krax haughtily. He’d be rid of these three with plenty of time to court a pretty Starfleet officer. Females of all types were his true weakness. Talking to them was enough, but getting back to his quarters was always better. “You think I’m like every Ferengi whose member will rise at the slightest suggestion of money, no matter what is being sold? Whatever it is you want, you will never have enough latinum to bribe me!” 

“Rapacious scoundrel!” he barked, this time purposely spitting on Krax’s clothes. “What joy would light my heart to know your dearly-beloved ears had turned gangrenous and rotted from your very skull!” Krax didn’t expect to be insulted so poetically. 

The Vulcan cleverly grabbed at his long wavy black hair and tugged hard to restrain him. “You will remain calm, and you will let go of your anger.” He did not yield, even as the Klingon bit at the air before his nose. 

Krax made a show of examining his fingernails. Hmm, they could use a little trimming. “I think the three of you have embarrassed yourselves enough.” The Klingon growled to himself as he carefully took his seat, and only then was his hair released.

The hybrid’s fingers drummed on the table in a way that grated against Krax’s ears. “My colleagues must be mistaken.” There was an odd twinkle in his real eye, even as the false black-and-white one caught the light strangely. “Ferenginar doesn’t have its own music and never has. We should not expect you to understand anything about music.” 

Krax froze up, staring at the hybrid and wishing there was a way for his eyes to drill a hole through the man’s head. He said that just to get a rise. He knew what he was doing.

And damn it, it was working!

The hybrid was more Cardassian than he let on. “I remember being told to never visit Ferenginar as I would find nothing of interest.” The words slid through his lips. “As I am told, the music is trite, superficial, and trivial. Subject matter appeals to basic instincts, and the music is created for manipulation, not as art. In fact, I was told that there know so little about art, one hesitates to call them civilized.”

“That’s a lie and you know it!” barked Krax. His fist was balled up but not ready to take a swing because he couldn’t risk it. 

“Then you will have no trouble selling us a sample of suitable quality.” His fingers kept drumming. “You need these, do you not? You certainly want them.” 

The three strips, and then three more.

Profits and Lace. He needed the money. And he needed these men to go away because the Klingon would surely turn him into an inside-out bloody mess. Instead of answering, he flagged down a server and took his time making his order. He’d play their stupid game. 

Of course, as soon as he reached for the strips, the hybrid pressed his hand over them. Krax hissed in frustration but wouldn’t waste his breath on arguing. He needed to take a more business-like tact. Squaring his shoulders, Krax puffed up a little too make up for his diminutive size. “You should know that I charge a finder’s fee, a variable percentage surcharge on transactions based on the rarity of the final product, an initial deposit to secure your request, and I expect reimbursement on any expenses incurred to procure your product.” 

He already knew they’d object, but the hybrid surprised him by sternly hushing the Klingon into silence. “Agreed.” The latinum strips made a painful metallic scraping against the table as the hybrid picked up each piece. “We want something new that you have never sold before. Created to our specifications. Can you procure that?” 

Careful. Males of any type were impatient and boorish. The four sat in defensive ill-tempered silence, Krax’s whole focus on the Klingon. He would not let any of these doofbeetles intimidate him. Only when his beverage arrive did Krax announce with false cheerfulness, “There is a composer who will fulfill your request. Very reclusive, but he likes me. He and I do business together from time to time.” 

The Klingon interrupted. “So allow us to meet your composer.”

He made sure to show his teeth when he smiled. “No.” He took long, leisurely sip of his beverage. “And if you ask me again, I am walking away.” Well, walk a few steps before breaking into a full sprint. 

This time, the Klingon kept his temper in check, though visibly struggled against his baser instincts. “I will say nothing more to this man.” He proudly turned away with an audible harrumph. 

The hybrid set a small black chip on the table which Krax picked up to examine. “Start with any of the songs provided on this drive. Reconstruct them in the Bajoran tradition.”

Simple enough. “Their origin?”

“Earth. They are very old Human works.” 

Profits and Lace, another Terran request. He was so sick of people’s interest in Terran music, and they never wanted anything interesting! “Earth, though, that is complicated. More languages than a place like Vulcan or even Bajor. This gets a high price.” 

Even the hybrid’s smile seemed cold. “That is the nature of these things, is it not?” 

“Hmph. Three strips now, three strips at time of delivery. This will take at least five days.” 

“How much can we pay to expedite?” He placed five strips on the table. “Will this be enough?” 

What kind of people were they to have this kind of money so ready to be thrown around? “For that, I can guarantee no more than five days.” 

The three looked at each other and nodded. “That is agreeable.” 

Krax snatched up the strips before they disappeared under another hand, stuffing them into the breast pocket of his waistcoat. “Five days, then. Find me on my break.” 

“Actually.” The hybrid placed a few more strips on the table. “Would you be willing to bring them to our quarters for us to inspect? We are in the visitors’ quarters.” 

He took those as well. “For one half-bar of latinum.” There was no way they’d have the money—

“That is agreeable.” 

Bewildered but forcing himself to smile, Krax stood from his seat and grabbed his beverage. He should take his leave while he can. “Pleasure doing business. Enjoy yourselves while you’re here.”

Krax moved to his favorite table where he could hear everything and though he strained, he could make out most of what those three were talking about.

“I did not—spend—my savings, my family’s money—for a damn Ferengi!” “He is your only lead.” “He is a fraud!” “He may be a fraud, but he is the only fraud you know that can lead you to your goal.” 

Krax peeked into his vest pocket. Real strips if ever he saw them. 

Five days. He could deliver in five days.

Probably.


	5. The Fabulous Ferengi

Five days.

Minjaral just needed to keep his new companions in good spirits for five days.

Visitors’ quarters had been easy enough to secure. However, they had over-promised on the latinum. To get the amount they needed, Minjaral must explain the Ferengi concept of ‘liquidating one’s assets.’

Minjaral reminded himself that these young musicians came from much more comfortable upbringings than his own; the many times under the Occupation when he had to sell off trinkets imbued with potent memories bled together into a vague tapestry of ‘just the way things were back then.’ Still, the items they gave him made Minjaral’s heart heavy: from Doh’Val, a centuries-old brooch cut exquisitely from black volcanic rock, an iridescent finish, delicate designs on the rock inlaid with sparkling metal, an engraving from the artist dedicating it to a lover—an heirloom that Doh’Val’s parents had given him both as a reminder of home as a last resort to sell if he was truly desperate; from Vudic, a long string of deep red beads, stone polished so smooth that the beads seemed wet, always a little cold and pleasing against the skin—a religious item important to the faith of Vudic’s mother who packed it in his luggage with the hope that he’d become more devout while far from home.

He wished he had living parents who loved him this much.

The brooch and the beads fetched far more than what they needed, easing the pain. Parting with prized possessions had been ‘just the way things were’ under the Occupation, but Minjaral was now reminded that each time it happened, it never felt easy or fair.

He visited the station’s temple when he could, feeling a rare sense of belonging among vedeks who welcomed him as no more than another devotee to the Prophets, but the sense of sibling responsibility that his early years had cultivated pulled him back to the other two to do what he could to comfort them. The two men’s friendship magnetically drew him in. The only Vulcans he’d ever met were in passing at conferences; he only knew Klingons entirely by reputation and the occasional visit to his region of Bajor. Two people from such markedly different cultures which rarely made contact, species that were once at war with each other, had found common ground. A long-dormant hope stirred within.

There was little to do on the space station and filling their time together, close quarters led to intimacy—aspirations, anxieties, childhood recollections (although questions about scars were conspicuously absent) all slowly revealed themselves. He learned that Vudic took up weaving both to maintain finger-strength while traveling and to emulate an ancient artist on his homeworld; Doh’Val did sewing and embroidery because it was, in his words, just as important as being able to wield a weapon. And in the evenings, all three read to each other, sharing the literature and philosophy of their mixed heritages, a slow process as they stopped every other paragraph to debate and discuss. Neither of his companions knew enough to sneer when Minjaral dared to share the selections of Cardassian writing that he’d come to enjoy, and for this he was grateful.

Before meeting them, such tenderness between two different species seemed unfathomable. One night, he stirred awake to hear them softly talking. Doh’Val could not sleep; the weight of patronage and family obligation gripped his mind. He asked Vudic to read—no, no more philosophy. He was so tired of that. Poetry. Vudic obliged. Anything to soothe his friend. Minjaral listened for some time until the young musician’s silvery dulcet tones lulled him back to sleep.

And then, the appointed day. Minjaral sorted through their collection of Musician 52366 recordings. Vudic had picked up his weaving. Doh’Val paced silently around the main sitting room, too agitated for sewing. They waited.

And waited.

And waited.

The door chimed. Minjaral finished his current thought and answered the door.

Their diminutive contact (Krax, they learned, from eavesdropping on other waiters) strode in wearing the characteristically flamboyant colors of which Ferengi were so fond. “Gentleman, I believe my composer fulfilled your request superbly!” He flashed a jagged grin as he handed over the little black chip. His bright green voice was chirpier than Minjaral remembered. “No need to thank me, of course. The latinum is gratitude enough.”

They felt closer than before, but he did not expect too much out of this meeting other than a new name to chase down. Vudic maintained a controlled, serene demeanor as expected of his species. Doh’Val, however, stood off by the window, glowering at the rest of them.

If this bothered Krax, he never showed it. “My composer was very pleased with this rendition of, um, ‘Vengeance Boils in My Heart’ as I believe. Difficult, but my composer’s best work if I do say so myself.” Krax flashed another toothy smile. “The quality of the sound itself is superlative.”

The black chip in the quarters’ computer, music started up, sweet and pleasing. The voice, a silky indigo, sang with purity. All three knew it so well by now, in their dreams the voice had replaced that of friends and family. How quickly this hoax was materializing into something real.

“Well! I will not trouble you any longer.” He extended his hand to Minjaral, still grinning with pride. “The payment, gentlemen?”

Before he could speak, Doh’Val growled, “No.”

Krax’s beady eyes became laser-focused on the Klingon. His smile strained, threatening to become a sneer. “No?”

“No.” He stalked closer. “Not until you tell us how to contact your composer.”

Krax snorted through his strained smile. “We already discussed this, Klingon princeling. My composer is very reclusive and refuses to see anyone.” He turned to Vudic, perhaps expecting him to be sympathetic. “Interferes with the creative process.”

Doh’Val folded his arms across his broad chest. “Then you will receive nothing.”

Krax straightened up, chest puffing slightly, all in an effort to seem bigger and taller. “We had a contract! Rule of Acquisition Number—”

“I will not hear any Ferengi nonsense about acquisition and financial minutiae.” His voice, normally like the rich warm dark soil of home, was like black ice. “My culture considers it dishonorable to not face the person they are exchanging money with.” He gave the other two a cool, conspiring glance. He wanted to compel a confession.

The gamble backfired. “No, they don’t!” barked Krax in disgust. “I’ve met Klingons! You’re just upset that for once, someone told you ‘no’!”

To his credit, Doh’Val remained in control. “Then you will receive nothing—No, Vudic, do not argue with me.” Minjaral swore he saw a momentary flash of silent rage across the Vulcan’s eyes. “Did I not sacrifice for our funds? Do they not partially belong to me, and therefore, do I not have a say in how our funds are spent?” The condescension in his voice was biting. “I determine that what we were given was not sufficient, and I will not pay for something insufficient.”

“Enough!” Krax was almost shaking with anger. “I am calling Station Security!”

No! They couldn’t risk it! Minjaral rushed to the door and slammed his fist against the lock-button. “Please don’t go,” he asked breathlessly.

Wide-eyed, the Ferengi frantically reached into his trousers before pulling out a disruptor, one that was as diminutive as he was. “You stay back.” He took a few steps back and pointing at the others. “All of you.”

The tension became palpable. They just had to keep their hands where Krax could see them.

His voice became rough pebbles. “I. Am going to lower my weapon. And you. Are going to give me my latinum.” The familiar click of the disruptor’s safety disengaging followed by the hum of the weapon powering up. “Do we understand each other?”

Vudic, his voice as polished and silvery and level as if nothing was out of the ordinary, spoke up. “Before you leave, please let us speak to you first.” He tilted his head toward the computer where the silky indigo voice snaked around them like ribbons of sound. “We have a recording that is of interest to you. Please allow me to play it for you.”

Only when Krax lowered his disruptor did Minjaral breathe again. “Alright.”

The time Vudic took to cross the room and pull a different recording on the quarters’ computer felt longer than any other moment they had spent aboard the space station. Silence would have been better than the sounds of a space station that seemed more like a gigantic metal creature which drifted through the sky of his home each night.

Silky indigo voice flowing in winding rivers through the air. Bajoran, a simple melody, and an endless string of random numbers. Deep wrinkles of contemplation covered Krax’s brow. “How did you find this?”

“I procured it at a conference.” Vudic, mindful to keep his hands visible, pressed his fingertips together in that way he did when expecting a lengthy conversation. He paused, not for himself but for his audience. “Sir. There is a mysterious artist whose recordings, such as this one, began surfacing in academic circles nine years ago, called Musician 52366. They have many contradictions and are a puzzle to scholars like us. They sing in different languages, about different topics, using different musical traditions, and different instruments. The only attribute linking them together is this voice, the same one we heard here and on your recording.”

“So, what is it? You think my composer is this mysterious musician?” The disruptor was down at Krax’s hip, but the safety was still off.

“We had our suspicion, and you confirmed it for us.”

He began pacing slowly, stroking his chin in thought, but still the disruptor was armed to fire. “And...what kind of reward would there be for someone who, say, produced this artist?”

“I do not know. But the artist, or collection of artists, would be the most famous of this decade. Wherever they went, they would be welcomed.”

Doh’Val cautiously enjoined with his eyes fixed on the disruptor. “If they came to my planet, they would be worshiped for their art.”

There was a scheming look on the Ferengi’s face. No. Wait. The look of someone weighing two heavy but tempting possibilities. “But perhaps, my composer.” Minjaral held his breath again as Krax gestured lazily with the disruptor. “Maybe he has good reason for staying, how shall I say, for concealing himself.”

Vudic dared to take a step toward the Ferengi. “We can only ask the artist to reveal themselves to us and use logic to persuade them.” And then Doh’Val again: “If you give us a name, a means of contact, I can convince my patron to personally invite the artist and offer a respectable reward for visiting Qo’Nos. My patron is very important and could even give the artist an audience with the Emperor’s court.” And Vudic once more: “We have traveled far and at great personal peril to find this artist because we believe that they can contribute far more to the galactic community by revealing themselves.”

At last, mercifully, the disruptor powered down and Minjaral heard the click of the safety latch going back into place. “First thing,” he announced as he put away the disruptor, “you three need to prove that you’re actually artists. Do something artistic.”

No time to waste. While Krax leaned leisurely against a counter in their quarters and muttered some command to the replicator, the three of them sprung for their instruments; Doh’Val’s singing drum, Vudic’s ka’athyra, and Minjaral’s flute. He realized that despite all of their time together, they never tried collaborating because they were still learning and experiencing each other’s musical styles.

Krax took a chair, his legs splayed wide, leaning back with a glass of something dark green, a lewd display of his power over them. “Well? I’m waiting.” They had taken no time to discuss their plan. Minjaral had to trust that their instincts would guide them.

Doh’Val started. A simple beat at first, then more flourishes to create a distinct, syncopated rhythm. The drum, his hands caressing both ends, gave a rumbling echoing sound, each beat leaping off like jagged gold sparks. Vudic joined, finding the rhythm, light fingers dancing across the strings of his ka’athyra, the sound sweet and echoing and mournful and like a white cloud. Minjaral closed his eyes, waiting for the music in his head to match what was around him. And then he played.

Eyes closed, the colors in Minjaral’s mind-eye became more vibrant. Threads of gold and white and bronze came together in tessellating patterns, then dark rich soil and silvery ribbon, stretched across Vudic’s backstrap-loom, strange yet beautiful in its strangeness. He could feel the end nearing. Eyes must open before he became lost in the vision.

Krax was leaning forward, eyes closed, head tilted so that his enormous ears were pointed toward them, listening with his whole body. The music ended. He leaned back once more, but this time in reverence.

“Does this satisfy you, sir?” Vudic’s hands were poised to play once more.

“Yes.” He took another breath. The enchantment lingered. “Yes, yes...I, huh, I never met other musicians.”

“Then. You will tell us the name of your composer.”

Standing up, he spread his arms with a flourish and an uncharacteristically bashful smile. “Krax, Son of Rhoon.”

Silence.

And then the giggles that started in Minjaral’s chest bubbled up into his throat and mouth before he could stop it because now, finally! Everything about the mysterious musician made sense! And turning to see the disoriented expressions on his companions only strengthened his laughter. Oh, Doh’Val would be furious! His patron would be apoplectic! They had built up this musician to be near-godlike, and in the end, it was a waiter living on a giant piece of space junk! “Oh, Prophets,” he gasped between giggles. “Oh, Prophets, oh, oh, Prophets….”

Doh’Val was quaking from his effort to hold in his anger. “No. No, no, no, this can’t be….”

“I told you this could happen!” Still laughing, he walked over to slap a friendly hand on the Ferengi’s shoulder, even as he squirmed out of Minjaral’s grasp. “Krax, I _must_ introduce you to everyone I know.”

While Doh’Val, paralyzed by his own emotions, seethed next to him, Vudic inquired, “Sir, I must ask for a demonstration of this fact.”

Krax scoffed, “And why’s that? You do not believe that I could compose?”

“You asked us to prove ourselves. It is only fair—” “He is a dastardly, artless targ, and he lies!” “Doh’Val, we must adhere to logic—” “After everything we have suffered, you want logic?”

Krax bolted away from Doh’Val who lunged at him. Minjaral’s hand fell to his thigh to touch the knife strapped and concealed there because there was no telling if he’d need it. “I demand the truth!” bellowed the Klingon as he recovered and readied himself to corner the Ferengi.

The disruptor materialized again, but this time Doh’Val was faster, his large hand closing around Krax’s dainty plump wrist hard enough for him to yelp as he dropped the weapon. Another large hand went to his throat. Minjaral pulled his knife, somewhere Vudic’s voice became acrid, “Doh’Val, do not force me to use the nerve-pinch—” “Mendacious little snipe! You are unfit for the world of the living, and I will eat your heart on the Promenade!”

A loud crackling, two shouts, and suddenly Doh’Val withdrew a burned hand from Krax’s throat.

Krax took the chance to wriggle out his grasp and retreat to the room’s door which remained closed, coughing and cursing unintelligibly and clutching his neck.

And then: “P’taq! You are too big, too angry, and too stupid for your own good!”

“ _Silky indigo!_ ” Oh right, the other two could not see music. “He was telling the truth!”

Vudic now stood between Doh’Val and the rest of them lest the pain in his hand wasn’t warning enough. He spoke with quiet reverence. “You are the artist I have been seeking.” By now, the fire had mostly left Doh’Val and he went back to glowering silently at the Ferengi.

The coughs that shook Krax’s body brought him to his knees. “Damn you, damn all of you.” With a wet, ripping sound, he tore a small swatch of artificial skin from his throat and threw it on the floor. “Damn you,” he kept repeating.

Well, someone had to help him. Minjaral cautiously brought the glass of green something over, set it before Krax, and swiftly backed away to give him space.

Krax’s hand hesitated, but he took the glass, sipping and watching all three of them. He cleared his throat. Then the voice he knew so well, silky indigo, spoke with purity. “Thank you.”

Minjaral knelt down at a respectable distance. “Krax. Sir. Why do you conceal your voice?”

Another gulp and a glare. “Why should I tell you?”

He shrugged. “Why should you not? You already told us something that you wanted to hide from other people.” He couldn’t see the other two, but he could hear them talking softly the way they had that night when he stirred awake. Vudic had a way with Doh’Val. They wouldn’t interfere.

Krax hummed in consternation. “Alright.” A heavy groan. “Alright, alright.” He couldn’t look at Minjaral. “You ever notice that you’ve never met a female Ferengi?”

“I apologize. I have met very few Ferengi.”

He scoffed. “Doesn’t matter.” He reached up and it was like a sleight-of-hand trick as Krax’s ears became half their size, the rest of them lying on the floor before him. “You never meet a female because you’re not supposed to. They...oh, you wouldn’t understand.”

“I would like to understand.”

“Females...are not allowed to wear clothes or write music or do anything for themselves.” For the first time, Krax showed the weariness of years of concealing one’s true self. “Everything is always for the males. I wanted to do something for myself, so I left.” Another sip and staring off at nothing in particular. “I can never go back, no matter how much I want to return.” A hard swallow. “I still have my mother and sisters back there. I do what I can to send them money.”

A strange piece of trivia rose to Minjaral’s consciousness. “I think...yes. I remember hearing about females gaining their own rights on your planet.”

“Yes.” A bitter, sad smile. “By the time I got here, it had already happened. If I was just more patient….” He shook his head. “Ma is very traditional. Doing what I do? She doesn’t know how. So I send her things.” A little glint of pride came to his eyes. “She has a wealthy and caring male admirer who is too shy to visit her, if you catch my meaning.”

Minjaral wanted to comfort this person, whoever they were. He slid his hand toward Krax because it was the only safe move he could think of. “I know what it feels like to love a place that doesn’t love you.”

A sheepish, shy giggle. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you all of this.”

Minjaral chose boldness and scooted closer. “I do not know either. But I am grateful.”

A winsome smile. “It took me a while because I see so many people here, but I recognize you. I noticed you coming and going through the station off to wherever else you were going. I remembered your voice. A good voice, very pleasing.”

He needed to force the question. “Will you come with them?”

A heavy exhalation. “I. I don’t know. It’s tempting. But, the girls here...I, I’m the one who keeps away the males, you know. The ones who will treat them badly. And. It’s a dingy place, but it’s still my home.”

“You do not have to stay away for long. Will someone look after your quarters while you are away?”

“Yes….” He didn’t sound convinced. His beady eyes drifted over to the other two. “They’re still talking about me; I can hear them. That Klingon princeling is having a fit over the fact that I’m not Trill or Bajoran or something that his patron won’t find so distasteful. The Vulcan, I appreciate him, isn’t happy either but he is consistent and cares about logic. That’s nice to know.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “All these species. They come through the space station and I get to taste them but never really know them. I think I’d like to know them.”

Minjaral turned around in time to hear Doh’Val snap, “Vudic, I am tired! I am tired and I am angry! I am tired, and I am angry, and I am at my wit’s end!” He pointed an accusatory finger at Krax. “How do you expect me to explain this to my patron?!”

Krax’s face twisted into a mean, sarcastic sneer. “Well now I must come with you just to see the look on this idiot patron’s face when he sees what you brought him.”

“Silence! You know nothing of what I sacrificed just to be standing here!”

That silky indigo voice became sing-song. "You have no idea how much I have already lost and gained back. I could lose everything five times again and I would never complain about it as long and loud as you would. It's settled! I'm coming."

“I will die before you set foot on Qo’Nos!”

Krax mocking repeated back his words before spitting, “Then perish.”

To his credit, Doh’Val did not try to strangle Krax again, instead turning to the Vulcan who looked deeply inconvenienced by this conversation. “Do you hear this?! Do you hear how he speaks to me, with no respect or honor?! I come here to offer him immortality through glory, and he calls me p’taq—” And on and on he went while Krax continued taunting.

Minjaral would take no more. “Gentlemen! That is enough!” The silence which followed reminded him that he still sounded very much like a Cardassian officer, try as it might to discard that voice.

He took a deep breath to slow his pulse before addressing the two young musicians who had brought him on this strange journey. “I came with you because you spoke of exploring artistic innovation. You spoke of being both apart of and apart from your own cultures.” He looked pointedly at Doh’Val while gesturing to Krax. “Do not act appalled when you find what you are looking for.”

Doh’Val hissed through his teeth. Everyone knew it; he must swallow his pride and accept the facts or say that he was lying the whole time. “Vudic, what do you say.”

It was a moment of nobility that not even Minjaral expected from the Vulcan. “I find no flaw in our guide’s logic. Mr. Krax is Musician 52366, the one we have been seeking. To reject him is to betray the purpose of our journey. I cannot do this.”

A deep, rumbling groan of his dark soil voice. Doh’Val sighed, smoothed out his clothes, straightened his back, and spoke with grudging but sincere respect. “Mr. Krax. I humbly and respectfully request you to grace my patron with your presence for the purpose of sharing your talent.”

Krax couldn’t stop smirking. “Oh, was that painful for you?”

“A simple yes or no will suffice,” he growled coolly.

Minjaral could tell that despite every effort at levity, the question was a huge weight on the Ferengi. Finally: “Yes. But! It is temporary.”

Even in his ill-temper, Doh’Val was visibly relieved. “I will work on securing our passage.” He stalked over to the door, punched the lock-button, and disappeared through the opening doors.

Vudic gestured to the sofa as an invitation for Krax to make himself comfortable. “Mr. Krax, I am curious as to why you have been using a device to conceal your true voice.”

A knowing look passed between Minjaral and the Ferengi before a jagged little smile came to Krax’s lips. “I will tell you, but first. My payment.”


	6. Dispatche to Qo'Nos and Abroad

Mother and Father,

We have found what we sought. Vudic, as a Federation citizen, convinced a small Starfleet ship to bring us as far as the borders of the Empire. Seu Minjaral, the musicologist I described to you, has agreed to join us. I will contact you shortly once we have boarded the ship.

Doh’Val

++++++++++++++  
++++++++++++++

You Who Are My Parents,

We have tendered passage to Qo’Nos for ourselves including Seu Minjaral and Musician 52366, a Ferengi by the name of Krax. His skill is unlike any that I have ever encountered, and I believe that Doh’Val’s patrons will find him satisfactory. A Starfleet ship is providing us safe transport into Klingon space. I shall contact you as I am able. 

Your Son

++++++++++++++  
++++++++++++++

Honorable Morath, Son of Mohm, of the House Bar:

It is with humility that I offer myself to your service in gratitude for the generosity you have bestowed on myself and my family. My journey far beyond the borders of our Empire has borne heavy fruit: the mysterious composer known as Musician 52366 has requested an audience with your Honor; however, the composer is a private and cautious person who has asked that I do not reveal their identity at the moment until they are formally introduced to you. 

In celebration of this successful sojourn, I humbly request an opportunity to present a series of new compositions in a private concert for the benefit of the House Bar. In collaboration with my colleague Master Artist Vudic and the composer Maestro Seu Minjaral, these new compositions will recreate through song the trials we suffered in service to the glory of the Empire. We also wish to display the talents of Musician 52366 in our presentation. 

My father has taken it upon himself to make a formal request of invitation when we have reached the safety of the Empire. I await the opportunity to dedicate my next compositions to the glory of your house. 

With honor and humility, for the glory of Emperor Kahless and The Klingon Empire,

Doh’Val, Son of Carl, of the House Nakarmi

++++++++++++++  
++++++++++++++

MEMORANDUM 

TO THE 13th CORPS OF THE HIGH IMPERIAL VANGUARD

Let it be known that the target, Federation citizen known as Vudic Jalal, has landed on Qo’Nos in the company of Imperial citizen Doh’Val, Houses Nakarmi and Auloh, as well as two other individuals who are expected to receive full processing upon reaching their destination, the home city of House Nakarmi, [REDACTED]. Customs officials has been instructed to relay information of the additional individuals to the Vanguard upon processing.

The target’s other associates, Federation citizen Aafia Jalal and Federation citizen Talok, are the target’s parents. All off-worlders are currently under sponsorship from the House Auloh and members of the House Bar. The target is considered of high interest and low threat to the Empire due to the information and knowledge which the target may possess (See report concerning incident on the ship commanded by Vanguard novice Captain Kagga, House Gorko). 

Vanguard members of the 13th Corps stationed nearest the target are instructed to monitor target’s movements. Vanguard members are authorized to engage target at the discretion of their commanding officer. Intelligence collected also indicates that the Imperial citizens sponsoring the target are rich with information on said target. Vanguard members may use their own discretion when engaging associated Imperial citizens.

No Vanguard members are authorized to eliminate and dispose of target or target’s associates. Information on target and associates must be collected and evaluated. In addition, Vanguard members are not authorized to eliminate and dispose of Imperial citizens who associate with the target. 

[TO BE FILED IN DOSSIER “UNITED FEDERATION OF PLANETS, CITIZEN VUDIC, SON OF TALOK, JALAL”]


End file.
